In the Presence of Evil

by Tania Bayard

  ‘Why did you become a monk?’ Marie asked.

  ‘I heard God calling me, when I was a boy.’

  ‘Sometimes boys become monks when they don’t want to,’ Jean chimed in. ‘Like the provost’s nephew. I’ve heard that the provost is going to make him go into a monastery. He doesn’t want to go.’

  Michel sighed. ‘I have heard about that. It is a shame Jean de Folleville should compel his nephew to become a monk if the boy has not received a call from God.’ He bowed his head and sat without speaking for a while. Then he looked up and said, ‘Did you know, Christine, Jean de Folleville and I were neighbors at one time, long before he came to Paris and became provost?’

  ‘Where did you live?’

  ‘In a village close to Amiens.’

  ‘Alix de Clairy comes from that region, too,’ Christine said.

  ‘Yes. Her family was well known there. That is another instance of a boy being forced to take the cowl against his will.’

  ‘What happened?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘It is a sad story that turned out well in the end,’ Michel said. ‘For generations, the lords of Clairy owned large estates in that part of the country, until Alix’s grandfather lost most of them to Jean de Folleville’s family in a property dispute. There wasn’t much left for him to leave his two sons. Alix’s father, the late Lord of Clairy, got what there was, and his younger brother had to go into a monastery.

  ‘Did he hate being in the monastery?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘He certainly did. So much so that when he was old enough, he left.’

  ‘How could he earn his living?’ Jean wanted to know. ‘You can’t learn anything useful in a monastery.’

  ‘Ah, but you can. He learned to be a scribe. Perhaps you know him, Christine. He’s here in Paris. He calls himself Henri Le Picart.’

  ‘That is the name I was trying to think of!’ Francesca burst out, forgetting she was angry with everyone. ‘Remember, Cristina, we were talking about the tin figures your father buried in the gardens at the Hôtel Saint-Pol? That was the friend who helped him. Henri Le Picart.’

  ‘So you know him, Francesca,’ Michel said. ‘Well, he’s Alix de Clairy’s uncle.’

  ‘Why did he change his name?’ Marie wanted to know.

  ‘It amused him to do so, I suppose. He likes to confuse people. Many people in Paris know who he really is.’

  ‘I’ve seen him in the library at the Louvre,’ Christine said. ‘And working in a booth next to Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie.’

  ‘Yes. He has a house near the church.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe such a disagreeable person is Alix’s uncle.’

  ‘It seems you’ve taken a dislike to him. You’ll be interested to know that Jean de Folleville dislikes him, too. As a matter of fact, Jean dislikes everyone in Alix de Clairy’s family, because while Henri was in the monastery, his brother – Alix’s father – went to court and retrieved all the property his family had lost, shortly before Alix was born. When her father died last year, Alix inherited everything.’

  Christine said, ‘I gather from what you told us before, Michel, that being a scribe is only one of the ways Henri Le Picart makes a living.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to worry about money. He may have been unhappy in the monastery, but he studied the books in the library and gained knowledge of astrology, magic, and alchemy. It is rumored he has discovered the secret of turning base metals into gold. I don’t know whether that is true, but he’s done well for himself, very well indeed. In fact, he has made so much money he can afford to lend some of it to other people, including the king’s brother. I saw Henri at the palace just this morning, and that may be why he was there. So you see, Thomas, it is not wise for you to turn up your nose at books. Not wise at all.’

  ‘If he has so much money, why doesn’t he leave the copying for those of us who really need the work?’ Christine asked.

  ‘No one knows the answer to that. Did I mention that in addition to all his other accomplishments, he is a poet?’

  ‘He sounds like an interesting man,’ Marie said. Christine glared at her.

  ‘You would not appreciate his poems, Christine,’ Michel continued. ‘They are most unflattering to women.’

  ‘I know very well he dislikes me at least. You should have seen the way he scowled at me when I disturbed him in his booth.’

  ‘Perhaps you just imagined it,’ Marie said, smiling at her with a knowing look on her face. Jean giggled.

  ‘I certainly did not!’

  Michel said, ‘Henri would not like to think a woman might be a better scribe than he is.’

  I’d probably be a better poet, too, Christine thought. I must try sometime.

  Francesca asked, ‘Do you truly believe he knows how to make gold, Michel?’

  The monk shrugged his shoulders. ‘There are a thousand probabilities about what goes on in that house of his near the church, but no one knows the truth.’ He picked up his spoon. But before he ate, he said, ‘Not every question should have an answer, and that is especially true of questions concerning Henri Le Picart.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Huguet de Guisay was a man lost in vice, considered a wretch by all honest folk. He hated the little people, whom he called dogs, and his perversity was such that he often forced them to imitate barking. Also, at dinner he made them hold up the table, and if one of them had the misfortune to displease him, he would make him lie on the ground, and he would climb on his back and strike him with his spurs until he drew blood … When his coffin was carried through the streets of Paris, nearly all those along the way cried out what he himself was wont to say: ‘Bark, dog!’

  The Monk of Saint-Denis,

  Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis,

  contenant le règne de Charles VI de 1380 à 1422

  Christine and her mother spoke few words to each other that evening. Christine was sorry Francesca was vexed, but she was relieved that she finally knew everything. Telling her had revived her courage. That and Marion’s admonition to wash the milk off her liver.

  Early the next morning, Francesca said, ‘I am going to Mass at the cathedral, Cristina, and I want you to come with me. You must ask the Lord to protect you. You might also pray for help from Saint Dorothy; it is her feast day.’

  Christine had planned to go to the Châtelet with the duke’s letter, but as it was still very early, she decided to appease her mother and accompany her to Mass. It was not a happy decision.

  A cold, dense fog shrouded the city, rolling through the streets, clinging to their cloaks, and muffling every sound. The cathedral’s towers were hidden in gloom; its portals were so dark that the sculpted saints were hidden, and the interior was even less welcoming, because the windows, so bright with color when the sun shone, were as dull and gray as lead. Christine and her mother knelt before the statue of Saint Thomas, then crept along the nave, their way lit by flickering candles, and joined the other shivering worshipers. The priest processed through the half-light to the altar, accompanied by the voices of a choir that sounded hollow and flat, and although the thurifer swung his censer mightily, the heavy, damp air kept the incense smoke from rising, and it hung like a dense cloud within the sanctuary.

  Chilled, tired, and annoyed with herself for coming, Christine leaned her head against her mother’s sturdy shoulder and, while the priest droned on, stared up into the dark vaults. She saw figures moving down toward her. First came Saint Dorothy, carrying the red roses that symbolized her martyrdom. Queen Isabeau followed her. She was dressed in a red houppelande covered with rubies that popped off and fell like drops of blood, and Ludwig, who walked beside her, reached down to retrieve them. The queen’s padded hair towered above her ears, and when she turned her head, pins flew out and circled around, squealing like bats. Cupped in her fingers, her hand warmer glowed, the coals burning crimson through the gold.

  Next came the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. They carried the long train of her houppelande, and in it l
ay the body of Hugues de Précy. His eyes popped out of their sockets and rolled down his cheeks, and his swollen tongue had grown so large it covered his body like a fleshy pink shroud. The queen’s dwarf lumbered along behind the cortege, holding on one side the hand of a hairy little man with a long tail dangling between his legs, and on the other, the hand of Blanche the seamstress, who towered over her, carrying a basket of blood-stained gowns. Behind the dwarf shuffled old Margot, dragging her head on a string, and, at the end of the procession, enveloped in flames, came Alix de Clairy and the four wild men who had died at the masquerade. Alix, her hair blazing and the blackened tatters of her silver-brocaded dress writhing and twisting like pieces of burning parchment, came close to Christine, stared into her eyes, and mouthed the words, Help me!

  Christine cried out, ‘Yes, Alix! I will!’

  Francesca turned with a start. ‘Wake up, Cristina!’

  Christine was shivering uncontrollably. ‘I want to go home.’

  Francesca put her arm around her shoulders and led her through the crowd of worshippers to the central portal of the cathedral. The fog had lifted, the sun blazed in a blue sky, and the air was cold and crisp. Christine rested against the stones of the portal and breathed deeply. ‘I thought I saw Alix de Clairy. She was burning.’

  ‘That is a very bad sign!’

  ‘Christine does not believe in signs,’ came a voice from one of the side portals.

  ‘Michel!’ Christine cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you. Georgette told me where you were. What frightened you?’

  ‘I saw Alix burning. I know it was only a dream, but it was terrible.’

  They heard shouting. Men staggered up the rue Neuve, carrying a black coffin and followed by an angry mob.

  ‘Who is in the coffin?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘Huguet de Guisay,’ the monk said. ‘The last man to die from the burns he suffered at the masquerade. Poor soul. He never learned what it is to be merciful.’ The pall bearers set the coffin down before the cathedral, whereupon several people kicked it and shouted, ‘Bark, dog!’

  Francesca turned her back on the coffin, and cried, ‘Malvagio tiranno!’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mama!’ Christine admonished her. ‘He was an evil tyrant, but he died horribly!’

  ‘I cannot do otherwise. He was so cruel.’

  ‘All the more reason to pray for his soul.’

  ‘Humph.’ Francesca took Christine’s arm. ‘We must go home.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ Michel said.

  The streets were deserted, but when they came to the rue Saint-Antoine, the Duke of Orléans, resplendent in a beaver hat and a crimson cape with a wide ermine collar, galloped by on a black stallion, accompanied by some of his knights. ‘They are going to the cathedral to protect Huguet de Guisay’s coffin,’ Michel said. Christine noticed that Guy de Marolles was not with them, and she wondered why; the duke never seemed to go anywhere without him.

  The house was empty. There was no school that day, and the children had gone to the market with Georgette, but Christine was surprised that Goblin didn’t come to greet them. She left her mother and Michel in the front hall and went upstairs to look for him. Although she remembered opening the shutters in her study before going out, they were closed, and the room was dark, the only light coming from the fireplace, where the flames pitched and tumbled as if possessed. In front of the flames, a figure writhed. At first she thought she was having another dream. But it wasn’t a dream this time. There was something there, a grotesque figure, an evil little man with a knob where his head should be, leg-like appendages, and something that looked like a long tail.

  She cried out. Her mother and Michel hurried up the stairs and into the study. Christine pointed to the fireplace. Her mother gasped, and Michel began to pray.

  Holding back her fears, Christine looked closer. A stone projected from the fireplace mantle, and a rope had been slung around it. There was something hanging from the rope. She reached up, slipped the rope off the stone, and took the object down. It was the mandrake. No one spoke for several moments. Christine opened the shutters to let in the light, and whispered, ‘This is the mandrake the queen lost.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Michel asked in a hoarse voice.

  ‘I got a good look at it in the queen’s chambers.’ She dropped the root. It landed against a book she’d left lying on the floor and sat there like a malevolent doll.

  ‘It is another terrible sign,’ her mother said. ‘What can it mean?’

  ‘Nothing mysterious,’ Michel said. ‘Someone put it there.’

  ‘An evil spirit. There is evil all around, and now it has come right into our house.’

  ‘No. A real person put it there. A real person who wanted to frighten Christine and who must have been watching, waiting until everyone had gone out.’

  ‘Maybe it was Georgette,’ Francesca said. ‘She’s the only other person who could have been in the house.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Mama. How could she have stolen it from the queen?’

  They heard Georgette and the children talking downstairs. ‘I can prove to you she didn’t do it,’ Christine said. She picked up the mandrake, hung it back on the stone, and stood in front of the fireplace. Then she called, ‘Come up here, Georgette. Leave the children downstairs.’

  Georgette ran up the stairs and into the study. Christine stepped aside so she could see the mandrake. The girl screamed and tried to run away. ‘Stop her! She’ll fall down the stairs,’ Christine called out to her mother. Francesca caught the girl just in time, and pushed her down onto a bench.

  The children bounded in. Lisabetta ran to Francesca, the boys went to the fireplace and gaped at the mandrake, and Marie hovered around Georgette, who was sobbing. Francesca said to Jean, ‘Go down to the pantry. There is a box with valerian on the top shelf. Put a spoonful in a cup of wine and bring it here quickly.’ Thomas gave his brother a shove, and Jean hurried to do as he was asked.

  ‘I should not have frightened her,’ Christine said. ‘But at least we can be sure she was not the one who brought the mandrake. She would never touch it.’

  Before Thomas and Marie could start asking questions, Michel went to the fireplace, took down the mandrake, and held it out to them. Georgette sat up straight on the bench and whimpered. Christine put her arms around her.

  ‘It is only a root,’ Michel said. ‘Because it is shaped like a man, people fear it.’ The children backed away. ‘But as with most things we are afraid of, the fear is worse than the thing that’s feared.’

  Jean came running into the room. He wasn’t carrying valerian and wine. He was carrying Goblin.

  ‘What happened?’ Christine cried. She released Georgette, who nearly fell off the bench, ran to Jean, and took the dog from him.

  ‘He was in the kitchen, tied to one of the table legs. He nearly choked, but I don’t think he’s hurt.’

  Goblin coughed, licked Christine’s face, and tried to jump out of her arms. She set him on the floor, and he stood up.

  ‘I’ll go down for the valerian,’ Christine said. She started to move away and found Lisabetta clinging to her skirt. She unfastened the child’s fingers one by one.

  ‘I will go with you,’ Michel said, setting the mandrake down gently on Christine’s desk.

  On the kitchen floor, they found the rope that had tied Goblin to the table leg. It was just like the rope tied to the mandrake. They went into the pantry to get the valerian and felt a draft. The oiled parchment that covered a small window was torn away, and the shutter behind it had been forced open.

  ‘Now we know how the intruder got into the house,’ Michel said.

  ‘Let’s hope he got out again,’ Christine said.

  ‘We’ll look.’ Michel found the valerian, scooped some into a cup of wine, and told Christine to follow him as he searched all the rooms in the house. No one was there.

  When they went back upstairs, Georgette was sobb
ing again, but Goblin had stopped coughing and lay resting by the fire. ‘The dog is well enough, but I wonder about this poor child,’ Francesca said, as she held the cup to Georgette’s trembling lips. The girl swallowed, choked, and spit out some leaves. After a few minutes, she asked, ‘Who put that horrible thing there?’

  ‘Someone who wanted to frighten me,’ Christine said. ‘Someone who knew we weren’t home.’

  The girl sobbed more loudly than before.

  Christine had been wondering how they could prevent her from telling everyone in Paris about the mandrake. Now it came to her. ‘I’m sorry you were frightened, Georgette,’ she said, going to her and putting her arms around her. ‘But if you want to continue working here, you must promise not to tell anyone about this. Not your mother or your father, not your sisters and brothers – especially not Colin. Will you promise?’

  Georgette nodded, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  ‘Good. Now go and start dinner. My mother will be down soon.’ She helped the girl up from the bench. ‘Everything will be fine as long as you keep the secret.’

  Georgette stumbled out of the room, keeping as far away as she could from Michel, who was holding the mandrake again.

  ‘That was clever, Christine, very clever,’ the monk said. ‘But it surprises me that she would want to stay here after the fright she’s had.’

  ‘She would have a hard time finding a job anywhere else,’ Francesca said.

  Lisabetta stayed close to Christine, but Jean, Thomas, and Marie stood near Michel, staring at the root. ‘What about you children?’ he asked. ‘Can you keep the secret?’

  Without taking their eyes off the mandrake, they all nodded.

  He dangled the root in front of their noses. ‘If you promise not to tell anyone about this, I’ll take you to the abbey and show you how we brothers live. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ they breathed in unison.

  ‘But if you tell anyone, anyone at all, I won’t take you there, and I’ll whip your hands just as your teacher does when you don’t attend to your lessons, only harder, much harder.’ He made the mandrake jump up and down like a puppet. ‘Do you promise to keep the secret, all of you?’